Looks On Tempests
by olivetreelove
Summary: Margaret ends her London mourning period early to return to Milton and the master of Marlborough Mills upon receiving bad news from Mr. Bell. She does not know if she wants to offer comfort or receive comfort. "Love looks on tempests and is never shaken." Formatting errors fixed! AU, character death, Margaret Hale/John Thornton


~A note: Hello folks. And so it begins! This is my first fic. I dearly love these characters, but, alas, they belong to Elizabeth Gaskell. Please read and review if you feel moved to do so. I am sorry for the initial formatting problems. I suppose I'm still getting the hang of this. Love always, H ~

Looks on Tempests

The train could not move quickly enough for Margaret Hale. Ever since she had arrived in London, she had done little but wish herself back in Milton, but she had not expected the trip to occur so soon. It seemed that it would take longer than she liked to do her duty to her Aunt Shaw by allowing the older woman to pamper and dote upon her grieving niece. Margaret knew that no earthly distance or proximity could truly bring her parents closer to her, but London, with all its frivolity and pretense, seemed the furthest from what had, at its most extravagant, been a modest pastoral life. Yes, a return to Milton would be most welcome. Her heart was tired from enduring the rapidly restored and exaggerated cheer of her Aunt and cousin, and from the inexplicable exhaustion born of lethargy. She just wished that less tumultuous circumstances had swept her back to the place she had unconsciously grown to love.

When Mr. Bell's letter had arrived, Margaret's now habitual fears of more misfortune were not enough to prepare her for its contents. The old scholar clearly wanted to emphasize the sweet of what was most obviously a bitter set circumstances. He was dying. He was leaving for warmer climates. But…he was bequeathing her the sum of his wealth and assets—among them Marlborough Mills. Margaret had set the letter down after that as now long-dormant tears pricked her eyes once more. They never slid to her cheeks. Over the past months, she had hardened to all the wringing that life saw fit to exercise on her weary eyes. Another loss. Another blow. She had had no inkling of her godfather's illness, nor of the state of the Mill—and its master—that had been such a central part of her and her father's lives.

She collected herself and read on. The Mill was soon to be closed—its master soon to be homeless, despite his best efforts—and it was up to Margaret to search out a new tenant. Margaret's heart began to race as she thought of Mr. Thornton laid low once again—stripped of what he had worked all his life to build, of what he had fastened to his identity with a pride and vengeance that she had once underestimated as a cold practicality and uncaring utilitarianism. What would become of his workers? His family? The man himself? But Mr. Bell had yet more for Margaret's quaking heart.

Hannah Thornton was dead. She died the day Mr. Bell wrote his letter, the day before Margaret read it. Mr. Thornton found her when he returned from the Mill that night. The funeral would be in three days and Mr. Bell had allowed the former master an extra week to set business in order before the Mill would change hands according to Margaret's wishes. She hastened through this last addition.

Her heart was set. She had decided something the moment she was forced to imagine Mr. Thornton stumbling upon his dead mother—no chance to say goodbye, searching for comfort as his livelihood crumbled only to find his last ally gone forever. She felt a stab of guilt for every moment of self-pity in which she had indulged since her parents' deaths. She began to pack a bag. She rang a maid to call her Aunt's second carriage. The remainder of the house was calling on acquaintances—an outing Margaret had dodged with a wave of Mr. Bell's envelope and a claim to a headache (her habitual excuse).

Within the hour she was waiting at the station for a north-bound train—alone. Propriety be damned. Despite the gloom that rolled her into action, this was the most alive she had felt in months. Her mind was a-flurry with the possibilities of what she would say and what she would find at her destination until the cab rolled to a stop at the Thornton residence. Mr. Thornton's opinion of her was likely as sour as it had ever been, a fact which could not possibly be aided by her impending acquisition of his entire life's work. As she stepped out of the carriage, a strange calm settled into her bones. Whether it was from the welcome familiarity of the smoky town, her need to be strong for whatever she found on the other side of the door, or a combination of the two, she was grateful for her growing resolve. She rang. A red-eyed servant answered.

"Miss Hale!" her surprise was palpable. She shot a worried look over her shoulder. "We were not ex—"

"Please. No. Do not trouble yourself. I'm so sorry to hear about your mistress. I have come to see Mr. Thornton. Is he at home?"

"He is not, Miss. He may be at the mill…I can—"

"Thank you," Margaret knew she was being rude, but she turned without another word and hurried to Marlborough Mills, not caring a wit for the gossip that would thrive in her wake—dead mistress or not.

She had not been prepared for the emptiness. She was so accustomed to the familiar thrum of the looms, the buzz of low conversation, the shouts of the overseers. All was still. The air was devoid of its customary drifting cotton. There were many deaths to be mourned today. The mill, once a living thing of sorts, now slumbered dismally. Her heart shrank back when her throat tightened at the sight. All the workers, their families—they were her responsibility now. She must ensure the silence did not last for long. More lives were threatened every day. The dimming afternoon light was giving way to the evening glow that slanted through the Mill window with what seemed an inappropriately beautiful golden hue.

She barely hesitated before knocking on his office door. She did not see any candlelight on the other side, but that was not surprising. He would hardly be in a state to—

"Come in." The weary call made her heart shuffle in her chest before resuming her resolved steadiness. She opened the door and stepped inside. He was hunched over a desk full of papers. One hand on his forehead, one frantically flurrying his pen across the nearest paper. She wondered if she should make a sound. She couldn't see his eyes, but his whole frame bespoke the weariness of grief that she had come to know all too well. Add to that the defeat of the Mill…

"Miss Hale!" he looked up at last and his surprise was quickly replaced by confusion, pain, something akin to relief, pain again—and that remained. It tapped a chisel into her heart and she felt cracks spider outward and engulf her. His eyes, though darkened by exhaustion and straining in the dim light, were not red. No tears there. Margaret could recognize that conspicuous sallowness. It had taken her much too long to summon tears for both of her parents. Not for lack of love. Just for utter disbelief. And an unspeakable need to stay strong—to push on…lest she lose herself.

"Mr. Thornton." She dropped her eyes as she made a small bow, relieved to break free of his gaze for a moment. When her eyes rose again, he had not looked away. His eyes questioned her for a moment before looking down once more to his work. His pen moved slower.

She took a tentative step further into the room.

"Must you work today?" She pleaded, now regretting the loss of his gaze.

He stopped writing but did not look up. "There is much to arrange." His voice was tight—the thinnest layer of ice over raging waters beneath. He resumed writing.

"Where's Fanny?" Margaret stepped forward once more.

"At home. Watson sent me a note—she will be in bed for the day."

"When did you last eat? Shall I call for some tea? Some food?"

"I'm quite fine." She did not let the irritation in his voice prevent her from nearing his desk even more. She could hear him wavering though he was attempting to rise against her. She sensed her own over-familiarity. Imploring him not to work? Presuming to call for tea from _his_ office? Margaret tried not to think about whether she sounded maternal or wifely by expressing such presumption in her concern. But the concern itself did not waver. She felt his grief keenly, her own being so fresh, and she also felt the desperation to alleviate that pain and declare her allegiance as a friend. He had done more for her as an ally with far less faith in her good character. This was the least she could do.

But she also knew that she would be lying to herself if she were to attribute her resolve and calm determination to a simple reciprocation of support. She had weathered the storms flung her way by cruel winds in no small part due to a newfound and necessary strength—a strength that forced her to come face to face with what was ugly, painful, and unfair. With the acceptance of the world's violence in ripping away the people who gave her shelter from the worst gusts of loneliness, came the acceptance of her own desires to foster new shelters and cling to what was solid and good—however fleeting that solidity might be. Venturing into the gale to search for something to grasp was a risk she had to take—to stay put would only result in a cold desolation.

"Really, Mr. Thornton, you ought to rest."

"Miss Hale. I am quite alright. Thank you for your concern." His stormy eyes met hers as she stepped forward again. The mask of pain was unshakable. His eyes sank once more, this time defeated by her firm gaze. He resumed his scribbling. She now stood over him, the desk impeding further progress. Her resolve only grew. She had flung propriety away from her the moment she packed her bag. She boldly stepped around the desk, coming up beside him. He shot a brief, surprised glance her way before continuing to ignore her.

She approached and rested her hand gently on his writing arm.

"John," she almost whispered. He froze. She felt his muscle tense beneath her fingers. She could see his eyes close and his jaw clench. He haltingly brought his other hand to rest on hers. He took a shuddering breath and jumped up from his seat, breaking free of her touch and rounding the desk to turn his back to her and rest one hand on the mantle.

"Miss Hale—I can't—please not—not now—" His voice was rough and barely controlled. His shoulders hunched, head bowed as he heaved ragged breaths.

"Mr. Thornton," she saw him flinch as she returned to his formal name. She followed his path to the mantle. He hid his face behind his raised arm. "You do not need to be strong right now." She saw him shake his head. "I should know," she ventured in a near whisper.

He turned his head and she saw genuine sympathy in his eyes before hiding once more behind hunched shoulders.

"That's not true," his whisper barely audible. "I have to—she was—I couldn't—"

"John," Margaret neared him. At the repeated use of his name, his shoulders began to tremble. Margaret lifted a hand to his quaking armour. "You did not fail her."

He let out a gasp that quickly turned into a sob. She spun him to her and flung her arms around his neck—much like she had over a year ago on the Mill steps. She offered what protection she could as he trembled and sobbed into her shoulder. Her heart shattered with his as he whimpered and gasped, balling his fists in the fabric of her shawl. She held him tight, he held her tighter. She hushed him, rubbing his shoulders, running one hand up to cradle his head.

The moment she had read Mr. Bell's letter she knew that she had been in love with Mr. Thornton for some time. And the moment she read bad news after bad news, she realized that their first true embrace would not be one of joy, but one of pain. When meditating on this, alone in the train carriage, she had nearly laughed humourlessly at their seemingly luckless lives.

She didn't know how long they remained encircled in each other's arms before his sobs slowed to the quaking gasps that follow fierce tears. His shoulders slowly slumped under her touch as the weariness settled like the final flakes of a dying blizzard. His breathing evened out, and, for a fleeting moment, she wondered if sleep had finally met him, though he remained standing. But he eventually pulled away, eyes lowered as he sniffled, running a hand over his face and through his hair, turning back to the desk.

"Forgive me." His voice was small. He rested a hand on the desk as if to steady himself, his back to her once more.

"There is nothing to forgive," Margaret said gently. A deep silence buried the room. Finally, she spoke, "Please, let me go get some tea, something to eat…" She moved for the door in an effort to relieve him from any embarrassment.

"Margaret, please—" The sound of her Christian name on his lips stopped her steps and her heart. She closed her eyes and relished it for a breath before turning to face him. "Don't go." His gaze was pleading before he lowered it once more, "I…don't want to be alone."

Like a stone dropped into a well, the meaning of those words sank far deeper than the surface ripples of the moment. She had dropped many such lonely stones (though there was rarely anyone to see or hear her) when her connections were cut, one by one. Mother, dead; father, dead; Frederick, exiled; Bessy, dead; Mr. Bell, far away and soon to die; Mr. Thornton, separated from her by his disappointment, her lies, her Aunt's insistence on a London life, and…her own fear.

Margaret nodded and took a step toward him once more, her heart hammering. "Is there someone I can call? I didn't see anyone else as I came in…"

"There are a few workers in the store house…" he looked pained and then concern flooded his features, "But Miss Hale, I would hate for anyone to talk—"

"I don't care what they say anymore."

The words came out sterner than she intended—almost accusatory. His brows swooped together as he puzzled over her, the impropriety of the whole situation suddenly washing over him. She couldn't help but notice his pale face and shaking knees with concern. Her sudden terseness evaporated.

She sighed, "I promise I'll come right back. Just let me go get someone to help. You need to eat something."

He nodded, resigned, as he moved to a chair beside the empty fireplace. He nearly collapsed into it. Margaret turned and opened the door. Before taking her leave, she turned back, "I will never leave you, John."

He met and held her gaze. Though the room grew ever dimmer, she swore she could see fresh tears in his now reddened eyes as his chest rose in a shaky sigh.

With that she turned and left before she changed her mind and ran to him.

Margaret balanced the tray on her hip to open Mr. Thornton's office door once more. As she opened the door, she could barely see the dark shape of the mill's former master in the chair she had left him in. She set the tray down on the desk, making her way almost blindly until she could busy herself with lighting the lamps and candles around the room. Her suspicions were confirmed: he had fallen asleep. His chin rested on his chest and his head leaned against one of the arm chair's wings. She stared for a moment at his smoothed face. The mask of pain had dissolved in the warm wave of slumber. She had often observed that her mother, when asleep had looked years younger, like she had never known weariness, heartbreak, or illness. Mr. Thornton's features underwent a similar transformation. She realized she didn't know his age, but in the same breath she realized that she perhaps knew more of his weariness and heartbreak than most.

She shivered and continued her work. She bent to light a fire. As the flames crackled their satisfaction and she shifted the coal with the poker, she was startled by a deep voice behind her.

"I thought you had gone to get a servant to do all this."

She had not heard him stir. "There's no need. I can manage perfectly well. I'm sorry I woke you."

She rose and dusted her hands on her skirts as she turned to face him. He looked at her, puzzled. Her breath hitched in her throat as she saw the handkerchief in his hand. "HT" was embroidered into the corner, encircled by sprigs of wheat and wildflowers. She jumped her eyes back to his face and also happened to notice that, despite the cold, his cravat was draped around his shoulders and the top few buttons of his shirt were open. She did not linger to glimpse what lay beneath. His puzzlement deepened to disbelief. For the first time since she had arrived, she became nervous beneath his gaze.

"I did say I would come back, Mr. Thornton," she said almost defensively. She turned to busy herself with the food she had managed to scrounge up from the near-empty mess hall with the help of Nicholas Higgins (who was overjoyed to see Margaret no matter the circumstances—a joy she readily shared with him).

"No." His voice was deep and she could hear him lean forward. "You said my name. You called me John." This time it was her turn to hide behind hunched shoulders and busy hands. "And you said you would never leave me. What did you-"

She spun. "You used my name too." She did not know why she sounded so defensive. How, even now, when they were both laid low and when she finally knew what she wanted, did she still manage to draw them into combat? She looked down at her hands and shrank back immediately after speaking. She felt he had been trying to trap her in something. She suddenly felt silly. She had come all this way…for what? To comfort him? To win him? After his opinion of her had surely already sunk to depths hitherto unknown to pretty, little, southern girls. Surely, she should go, leaving him to grieve.

Mr. Thornton did not reply. He leaned back once more and ran a hand over his face and through his hair, making it stand at odd angles. It was not a mannerism she had seen him display before that day, but he did it with such habitude that she could only assume it to be a frequent fidget induced by a stressed brain. She busied herself once more, dragging a small table between the chairs in front of the fire and setting out two cups of tea, two bowls of stew, and a few pieces of bread. She froze as she felt his gaze. Why the sudden nervous dismantling of her former resolve? Not an hour earlier, a hurricane could not have shaken her. She blushed as she met his eyes still a little dewy with sleep and still surrounded by purple exhaustion.

"Unless you'd rather…eat alone…"

"No, please," he gestured toward the other chair, but he did not venture any more questions about her intentions.

They ate in silence as the fire slowly dispelled Margaret's periodic shivers. It seemed even her brief time back in London had thinned her blood once more. Eventually the food ran out, and with it the excuse for continued silence. Margaret opened her mouth several times to speak with no success.

"How did you…" his eyes found the tea leaves floating in the bottom of his cup. He just shook his head instead of finishing the question.

"Mr. Bell." Margaret said, her confidence returning. "He wrote to me yesterday. I got the letter this morning."

Instead of replying, he slowly turned the cup round and round in its saucer.

Margaret pressed on, "He's dying."

Mr. Thornton looked up, surprise evident in his features.

"I had thought you would have known that. Mr. Bell said he would be writing to you too, but I suppose it is understandable if you did not yet get his letter…" she trailed off.

"Margaret, I…"

They both locked eyes at the use of her name. It was no moment for petty triumph. He offered only sympathy.

"It's alright. He says he's going to Argentina for his remaining days. It is nice he got to say his goodbyes and find some joy and warmth before…the end."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so." His face darkened again. Margaret knew all too well that goodbyes were rare, and painful death was something she wished on no one. Mr. Thornton, in this moment, second to only one other all those years ago, knew this as well.

"He told me about the mill," she continued. Mr. Thornton bean to nod. Margaret took a breath and pressed on gently. "And about…your mother. How you…found her." His hands had started shaking and he kept nodding his head, like the repetitive motion of one of his machines. She leaned forward and touched his hands to steady them.

"John." He met her eyes, his face blank. "I'm so sorry," she whispered shakily. Tears stood in her eyes. He looked down again and Margaret retreated. "He left it all to me," her voice sounded far away even to herself, "everything, Marlborough Mi—" She stopped at his wounded expression he shot at her.

"So, you know then," his voice barely rose over the sound of the fire and his clinking cup, "that you were wrong. I _did_ fail her. There's no denying that. I was never as strong as her." His grip tightened around the cup as his voice rose. "I think you should go Miss Hale. You have more important matters to attend."

Margaret feared he might throw his cup, so, by way of answering his request, she rose and pried his fingers loose, placing the cup and saucer on the table. She sank to one knee and held his hands in hers.

"John Thornton, if I ever hear you say that again, I will make that mob look like a tea party. I may not have known her especially well, but I did now that that woman loved you with every fiber of her being. You could never fail her—not in her eyes—and I'm sure she'd beat sense into anyone who dared contradict her." She heard his breath shudder with a half-laugh-half-sob. "We never got on, Mrs. Thornton and I, but I could never lose respect for a mother who loved her children the way she did." The tears he shed now were quiet and slow. Not the deluge of an hour before. She reached a hand up and wiped a tear while directing his jaw to fasten his gaze to hers.

"She once told me that I knew nothing of the man I had rejected. She was right. The man she was talking about was someone she had watched rise to an obscenely desperate and tragic occasion and triumph over it. And she had faith he would continue to do so in the face of any trial, against any odds, no matter how bleak. She saw a caring, feeling man where I could not. She was right to believe me unworthy of you. As time passed I came to realize that your mother was right about everything. And she was absolutely right to put her faith in you and to love you as she did. It would not have mattered if you lost fifty mills." Now both were crying and quiet sobs shook him once more as he leaned his cheek into her hand. His grip on her other hand was almost too tight.

"These things…" Margaret trembled, "they are no one's fault. Not mine, not yours—they just…are." He raised his hand to her cheek as well and brought her forehead to his. They stayed that way until the tears had run their course.

Margaret's knee started to ache. She pulled away and stood. His eyes remained closed as she released his hand. She didn't know why her boldness seemed to be fueled by tears. She placed a hand on either side of his face and leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. She kept her hold on his face as she gauged his reaction. The look he offered was a storm of tenderness and confusion. He reached up and took her hands and brought them to his chest as he stood. Margaret stepped back. He held her fingers captive as if in prayer.

"Miss Hale."

The formality made her look down. "Yes."

"Why did you come here?"

"Do you really need me to say?" she whispered.

"Yes." His tone was serious, his brow stern, but ready to give way at a moment's notice to something Margaret had only begun to entertain in her imagination. "After all our misunderstandings, I think that I do."

She searched for her boldness to face what she now knew had dwelled within her for so long.

"Margaret." His voice. Oh, his voice.

She looked up, fearful, hopeful, breathless. She closed the gap between them and freed her fingers to press them to his chest.

"Because I am yours."

He moved his hands to her shoulders, his brow shuffling off the pain and melting into disbelief and the gentlest and deepest of joys.

"I love you, John Thornton. And—if you'll be mine—I am all yours." She couldn't help but laugh in relief. For a moment all the pain was submerged under a tidal wave. His tears became tears of joy. A smile cracked his mask as he gasped a laugh as well and raised his hands to her face once more, wiping at her own fresh tears. His look settled into solemn tenderness as he slowly, cautiously brought his mouth to hers and the gap disappeared completely.

So, their second true embrace—after all the misunderstandings, the loss, the pain—was one of joy. Back to where they started, Margaret would muse later, offering each other protection from stones, from pain. Now they would share it all. No more wandering dusty streets alone, no more hiding wounds, no more pleas for backward glances, no more fear of failure. She held him. He held her tighter. And they planted roots that would withstand the most violent of tempests. Willing to fix themselves—to find stability, to pick up the pieces—and to anchor themselves even among the roiling waves. Soon the clouds would clear and they would both gaze up at the star that they had stared at from separate shores—now they would see it from the safety of each other's arms.


End file.
